A Study in Pink
by 1B
Summary: A woman in pink is the fourth in a series of seemingly unrelated suicides, but Sherlock Holmes deduces that the deaths are actually murders most foul. Canon/Series 1 Rewrite/AU; Female John Watson. (I.E. I challenge myself and stretch out my brain muscles after not writing in forever. Fem!John Watson & Male Sherlock Holmes.)
1. Surviving, but just barely

Explosions riddle the ground as a platoon kneels patiently in the trenches, someone familiar is giving an order that can't quite be heard over the sounds of the bombardment only a few meters away from where they are hidden. For a moment the trenches become quiet, a deafening silence that threatens them, leaving the air tense around the company of soldiers. One of the men is playing with his breast pocket, producing a tiny handheld mirror which he promptly lifts over the ditch walls. The aerial bombardment continues outside of their literal hole in the ground, until the man with the mirror curses under his breath, catching the attention of his squadron. 

He has little time to respond, and he finds that his only option is to push his commanding officer out of the line of fire before the projectile finds its way to the man's hip and proceeds to burst on impact. "No." She can hear herself saying, eyes wide from shock. The smell of old blood hangs in the air, thick and revolting as it invades her nostrils. She finds that she is unable to move herself out of the spot she was thrown back to as a man of superior rank places his hand on her shoulder. His face is foggy, and she can hardly make out what he's saying, but she knows that tone; an order. He is shouting some sort of command in her direction, looking the young woman in the face as he shouts her name in tandem with another aerial strike as it embeds itself into the trench only a few short meters from their bodies. 

"Watson!"

The boom of the final explosion startles her awake; setting her nerves on fire as the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The need to lift herself from the sweat-strained sheets below her person is instant upon waking. It takes several moments, and multiple deep breaths for the young woman to grasp at reality and realize where she was exactly. "Bedsit." Watson's brain reminded herself, and she took the opportunity to fall back onto the threadbare sheets below her body. She sucked in a few more shaky breaths, placing her forearm over her eyes as the gulps of air turned into choked sobs.

She lays against the sheets until her cries subside and her breathing is under control. Running a hand through her sandy blonde hair, the young woman stairs up at her plain ceiling, surrounded by boring walls and minimal furniture. She does this to busy her mind, doing her best to forget the dreams and hide the pain that comes along with them. When that doesn't work (and the dampness of her sheets gets to her), Watson rises from her bed to pull away her bedding. She tosses the plain grey of the sheets into the hamper, moving to replace them with new fabric soon after. And then she's laying on her bed again, staring at the ceiling; unable to fall back asleep.

And as the first few strands of sunlight seep their way through the curtains and onto the floor, she rises from the uncomfortable twin mattress and throws her striped dressing gown around her shoulders, tying it at the waist as she makes her way to the kitchen for breakfast.

As the sun rises and her morning coffee is in hand, she finds herself staring down at the cane that was sat gently against the wall. There's something in the way she narrows her eyes at the object as she takes the head of the staff firmly in her hand. Something fierce, something resentful. But the moment is lost just as soon as it comes and upon first light, the snow ex-solider hobbles her way to the wooden desk that sits rather lonesome against the wall opposite her bed.

Watson sets her morning coffee down against the cheaply made surface, as well as a palm sized green apple. After tucking her leg underneath the desk with a grunt and sitting comfortably, she slips her hand to the drawer to her right. Pulling it open half-way, she removes a laptop computer from the desk; waking the device from its sleep mode as it is opened and placed next to her coffee.

 ** _THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JANINE H. WATSON_**

The cursor winks away on the thin screen, expectant; wanting. Watson's face contorts into a frown and her brow furrows as she opts to focus (or at least try to focus, that is) instead of scanning the title over and over again. Clasping her hands together, she places them over her mouth; glaring at the empty, intimidating (though she would never say it out loud) screen. All the while, the cursor blinks away.

* * *

"How's the blog going?" A voice asks, inquisitively. Its tone is equally as expectant as the cursor on Janine's computer screen had been that morning. The owner of the voice sits across from the ex-soldier, her patient, her posture open and her notepad out.

"Oh, fine. Good. Very good." Janine's eyebrows furrow. Whether it is in an effort to believe her own lie, or focus on her therapy session, she can't decide. So, she tells herself to focus; though it's obvious she'd rather not be here. Ella, the therapist, looks at Janine knowingly.

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

Ella makes a note against the paper's flat surface and opens her mouth to speak but stops short of her patient's reply. "And you just wrote "still has trust issues"." To which Ella glances down at her notes once again, thinking. She points the butt of the pen in Janine's direction, an aggressive move though her posture and expression are still unthreatening.

"And you're reading my writing upside down. You see what I mean?"

The corner of the young Watson's mouth tugs upward suddenly, a ghost of a smirk passing her lips, but her finger tips tap irritably against the arm of the leather chair she is seated in. "Janine," Ella shakes her head, doing her best to reason with the woman. "You're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life." She makes a mental note of Janine's stiff posture and continues, her tone a little more sympathetic. "And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

Watson's finger tips press into the leather on the arm rests until her nails are white. When she answers the woman across from her, Janine's jaw is tight, and the emotion is clear on her face; though she does her best not let her comment sting. Ella has done nothing wrong to her. Nonetheless, the resentment is there as she comments:

" _Nothing ever happens to me._ "


	2. Business Casual

October 12TH, The London railway station is bustling and cramped with strangers of every creed trying to find their way to their destinations. Conversation echoed off the underground walls, making the space seem more cramped then it really was. A middle-aged man whinges into his mobile as he makes his way through the station. "Car? What do you mean there's no ruddy car?" There is a lilt of arrogance in his voice, reflecting the way he presents himself to those he speaks to.

"He went to Waterloo, I'm sorry." The voice of his personal assistant explains, sighing with exhaustion as her heels are heard clicking over the tile floor on the other side of the line. "Get a cab!"

"I never get cabs." He says flatly, the humor in his voice present only to his assistant. The rhythmic _click click click_ of her pumps finally comes to a stop and she pitches her voice low, in an almost whisper as she responds, "I love you."

"When?" If there was ever a time a smirk could be audible, this would have been it.

"Get. A. Cab." She responds to his jest with a playful demand, a soft giggle bubbling to the surface as she holds the mobile closer to her cheek on. The businessman gives a sly smile at her reply, pulling the mobile device from his ear and flipping it closed; shoving the compact cellular into his overcoat pocket and promptly exiting the tramway.

It is much later when Jeffrey, the smartly dressed business executive, allows himself to sit down. Though he wishes it were under better circumstances. The reality of the situation washes over him completely as he unscrews the lid from the palm-sized bottle nestled in his hands. He is shaken, violently so as he dumps the contents of the glass casing into his right hand. The translucent casing of a pill sits patiently in his hands; filled with pearls of white and flaked with bits of black, it sits there. Daunting in its see-through shell.

He tries to steady his nerves, as he glares into his palm and then proceeds to gaze at the figure standing before him in disbelief. The terror he feels contorts his features until he is left a sniveling, shaking mess. And it seems that he can't quite grasp the fact that he's going through with this – or rather, that he has no choice in the matter. The figure in front of him jerks threateningly, and Jeffrey places the pill between his teeth, biting the capsule open before swallowing the item completely.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Camera lenses whirr and shutter as lights flicker against the back of the room and those sitting in front of it. There, in the center of the strangers seated, an older woman inhales slowly; trying with all her might not to allow herself to look weak in front of the press. She takes a moment to steady herself before reading the prepared statement that sits before her on the fold-out table. "My husband was a happy man, who lived life to the full." She begins, though her tone is still uneven – tearful.

"He loved his family and his work. And that he would have taken his own life in this way, is a shock and a mystery to all who knew him."

The widow's voice finally breaks, along with her composure. She turns from the press slightly as a man wraps a protective arm around her shoulders, shielding her crying eyes from the attacking lights and prodding questions that befall her after the statement. Jeffrey's personal assistant stands in the background, trying to contain herself as she watches the bereft woman try her hardest not to openly grieve. The P.A. clasps her hands in front of her waist, as a camera watches on; the young woman containing her grief to a single tear.


	3. Downpour

November 26th; "Jesus, it's really coming down out here!" A young man shouts back to his friend from under his umbrella, turning back to watch as the younger of the two pulls his coat over his head; hiding himself from the storm's intensity. "Oh yeah, must really suck under there, Gary." The young man mocks playfully. Gary shrugs as they continue with what could be considered an _almost_ sprint.

The young man with the coat pulled over his head turns upon hearing tires against pavement. A taxi! Today may just be his lucky day, he thinks as he uncovers his head, racing off the sidewalk and into the street to hail a cab. "Taxi, yes! Hey! Taxi!" He waves his hand in the air, and the driver most definitely sees him. But to his and Gary's disappointment, the taxi doesn't even slow down.

"Ah!" He scoffs, tucking his hands into his pockets to warm his hands as he returns to his companion. "I'll be back in two minutes, mate." The boy begins his stride backward, zipping up his coat as he moves away from his older friend. Gary throws his free hand into the air in a shrug, confusion spreading across his face.

"What?"

"I'm just going home to get my umbrella."

"Jimmy, we can share mine!"

But the lad is already half way down the street, he turns to shout back. "Two minutes, all right?" Gary sighs at how stubborn Jimmy can be but decides to wait for his friend anyway. "Ugh, fine," Gary mumbles to himself, pulling his umbrella a little closer to stave off the rain.

He waits in the pouring rain for Jimmy to return as two minutes turns into ten, and ten turns into thirty, and so on and so on until Gary can't wait anymore. His glasses fog over his eyes and he's sure that he's going to be sick for a week at least after they get to his house. Gary, now miserable underneath his umbrella sighs heavily, balancing his parasol on his shoulder to pull his sleeve back and check the time.

"Where is he?"

* * *

He shakes violently, soaked to the bone and terrified of the figure that stands before him as he crouches against the wall. Jimmy clutches a palm-sized bottle between his hands, shuddering as he hunkers down fetally. The young man shakes his head in disbelief, petrified as he unscrews the cap from the ridge of the bottle. He sniffles, and hiccups and his prayers go unanswered. Finally, the figure moves menacingly in front of him, and he places the pill on the tip of his tongue.

* * *

The sun shone bright against Janine's skin as she supported herself with her cane at the news stand. She plucks the morning's paper from one of the racks and presses herself against the wall. Her features twist into a frown as she reads today's headline:

JIMMY PATEL, 18, COMMITS SUICIDE IN SPORTS CENTRE.


End file.
